Page 55 of On the Edge

Texts sucked. Declan’s expressions were cryptic enough in person. Reading his mood via text was darn near impossible. The picture was gorgeous, even in the shitty late-night cafeteria lighting on my phone. I could easily see why Declan enjoyedtraining in Arizona in the winter. The rugged desert with vivid colors reminded me of growing up in Utah near the various national parks. While I had no desire to return to the scraggly compound where I’d spent my first fifteen years, I could see sitting in the desert with Declan, watching the sunset, holding him, talking.

Hell, I’d hold him anywhere, and that was the entirety of our problem. Not wanting to alarm the bored cashier in the otherwise empty cafeteria, I suppressed a groan. Instead, I took another bite of a bitterly disappointing chicken croissant.

I’d be happy to openly claim Declan as mine, to have a real relationship. I’d risk losing his father as a friend, but I’d gain Declan, who was everything I’d spent my life searching for. Someone to take care of. Someone to take care of me. Someone who let me spoil them in and out of bed. Someone who valued timeinbed for more than simply sex.

The last few nights I couldn’t look at my bookshelf or my e-reader app. I’d never been happier than when I was cuddled up, reading with Declan. But as much as I cared about him and wanted a future, I wasn’t prepared to spend years miserable and stuck in a closet of his own making.

That risk was made crystal clear as I scrolled through my messages to discover a series of texts from Rowan.

Rowan

OMG. Declan’s riding?!?!? They wouldn’t let him do that without the doctor clearing him, right? Cyrus posted this video on social.

Helpfully, he’d provided a link where Cyrus indeed had a video of him and Declan riding together.

Training with one of the GOATs. Bucket list moment and so f’ing happy to see Number Eleven riding again.

Fuck. Guess that answered that. Racing had won. I couldn’t see Declan’s face while he rode, not with the helmet and goggles and distance of the camera, but his body language was loose and fluid. I couldn’t say I knew a ton about riding motorcycles, but Declan certainly looked the part of the natural everyone said he was, one with his machine, zooming down straightaways and taking curves smoothly. He’d said numerous times that he was born to ride.

Now, I believed him. No way could I take that from him.

He could come out, be a trailblazer for his sport. But would he? Likely not, no matter how much “time” he was granted. I’d always known he’d return to racing, much as I’d hoped otherwise. I couldn’t hold him here and should have known better to dream of trying.

Stomach decidedly sour, I scrolled on. My other messages were a laundry emergency from Rowan, a request from Eric asking if I could handle getting the teens ready for school in the morning because he had an early shift, a message from Wren that Oz missed me, and oh, by the way, we were out of bacon and cereal again. Tony had forwarded word of another football fundraiser, and Maren had sent a line of cryptic emoji.

I was trying to decipher those when my hospital phone blared, summoning me back to the ER.

“We’ve got a multi-vehicle I-84 crash,” the triage nurse reported. “Two cars tangoed with a motorcycle in the rain. One fatality on the scene and three critical patients inbound. Life flight is grounded by the weather. All hands on deck.”

I didn’t have to ask which was the fatality, and my esophagus twisted into a tense knot right behind my sternum. Was I ever going to be able to hearmotorcycleand not immediately think of Declan? And lord, I hoped Sean wasn’t on duty. He was a pro, a longtime firefighter, but he’d take this one hard.

I made it back to the nursing station at the ER, where the teams had assembled as we awaited the ambulances. One victim had burns, so the burn team would need to handle that case, bringing in the burn cam and other equipment to stabilize until they could airlift the burn patient into Portland.

Triage continued briefing us on the other victims.

“Munson’s on call and on the way.” Munson was the trauma surgeon, and he’d be required if we had to send anyone back to the OR. Doctor Griffin would take point on the most critical case until Munson arrived while I would assess the third patient, a female with a possible head injury among some probable broken bones but stable vital signs.

I’d worked in emergency departments for twenty years, and the concerted team effort as critical cases rolled in never ceased to amaze me. We might be short-staffed, but we knew our roles.

The ambulances arrived in a flurry of activity as the patients were transferred to our care amid reports from the paramedics and EMTs. I had the briefest interaction with Tate, an EMT friend, in the hall while awaiting the second ambulance.

“Motorcyclist was the fatality?” I asked in a low voice.

“No, that one’s yours.” Tate’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone is in rough shape, but miraculously, the rider was thrown clear of the worst of it.”

I had almost no time to digest that news before the second ambulance arrived. Eric was the lead paramedic on the call, and he relayed the vital information as the patient was wheeled in. As a dad, Eric was an inspiration both for the struggles he’d overcome and for his caring, involved style, but as a paramedic, Eric was a force of nature, impressive in a whole different way. I trusted that he and his crew had done everything they could to give this woman a fighting chance.

“Marissa Darcy, female, thirty-eight, license says The Dalles, no known prior conditions. Was wearing riding gloves, jacket,helmet. Helmet was removed at the scene prior to transport. Law enforcement is going to want toxicology, but she self-reports no substances or alcohol.”

“It was the truck.” The patient was indeed alert enough to look righteously pissed off from her position on a gurney, strapped to a backboard. “Stupid fucking speeding teenagers.”

“Stay calm, Marissa.” Eric patted her shoulder as we wheeled her into one of the trauma rooms, which was larger than a typical ER cubical. “We’re here to help.”

“The police will do the investigation fairly, I promise,” I added as I moved beside her gurney.

“They better.” She had wild, curly dark hair, banged-up pale skin with a pasty tinge I wasn’t crazy about, and piercing blue eyes that reminded me far too much of Declan’s. “You a doctor?”

And here we went. I was all Marissa had at the moment, and if she had a problem, she would have to deal, but I continued my gentle tone.

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